


Light Showers and a Gentle Breeze

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: (specifically the Isle of Lewis), Christmas, Holidays, Isle of Lewis, M/M, Outer Hebrides, Scotland, Sexual Content, Sharing a Bed, Sleepy Cuddles, Weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-19
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-09-22 20:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17066465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: They had been under no illusions that there would be a guarantee of snow, but nothing could have quite prepared them for the abundant, relentless sprinkle of rain.In which Bucky and Steve go somewhere quiet for Christmas.





	Light Showers and a Gentle Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [velvetjinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetjinx/gifts).



> Surprise, I was the Secret Santa for [velvetjinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetjinx) all along! This story slightly snowballed from the tiny premise I'd started with, and I got to spend a lot of time falling down fun research holes, and for that I am very grateful. I hope you like it, hen! x

They had been under no illusions that there would be a guarantee of snow, but nothing could have quite prepared them for the abundant, relentless sprinkle of rain.

It was raining when their grueling, fifteen-hour transatlantic journey finally touched down, and it rained steadily for their drive across the island. According to the latest weather forecast, they had a solid wall of rain to look forward to at least until they packed up and flew home again the following week.

"It had to fuckin' rain, didn't it," Bucky sighed, as the rental car trundled slowly down the uneven dirt path.

"Hey, you're the one who suggested a quiet Christmas, just the two of us, away from the city," countered Steve. "You could have picked Baja or Goa or Bali, and you picked a Scottish island. You've got nobody but yourself to blame if there's rain."

"... it could have at least have snowed," Bucky shrugged. "Sometimes they get snow."

"You wanna have a word with the weather gods?" asked Steve.

"Ah, forget it."

"I mean, we _could_ drive back to Stornoway," suggested Steve, "but the way the weather's looking, I'm not sure I want to try."

"Hell no, Steve," protested Bucky, his hand resting softly on Steve's arm. "This place is beautiful. This is gonna be a perfect Christmas, right here, in the rain."

There, set among the lightly muddied hills just inland from the craggy sea shore, was Steve and Bucky's rustic, charming stone cabin for the holidays.

"Cabin might have been a little generous," said Bucky, squinting at their diminutive accommodation, "it's a glorified goddamn shed."

"You know," said Steve, fumbling in his deep coat pocket for the keys, "place like this'd go for a cool $2500 a month in Manhattan."

"Oh my god, that's true," conceded Bucky. "Do you think whatever the roof of this thing's made of is waterproof?"

"Hope so," shrugged Steve, the heavy red door creaking open. "Guess we're about to find out."

The thatched roof, it turned out, kept the interior surprisingly dry, and the little cabin had room enough for an adorably small kitchen (even by New York standards), with green-painted cupboards echoing the patches of moss that dotted the rooftop, an old kitchen table and two chairs, and a small range of enamel cookware set neatly atop the old cast-iron stove. And an electric kettle: thank god, thought Bucky, there was an electric kettle. Bucky set his heavy boots on the mat by the door, passing through to the bedroom, dropping his rucksack onto the

"Bunk beds, Buck?" puzzled Steve. Bucky looked up. Yep, bunk beds. Two snug single mattresses stacked one on top of the other, a study wooden ladder hanging down one side for a sleepy traveler to clamber up at the end of a long day's rambling.

"Aww pretzels," he said, "the website said the cabin sleeps two. I was picturing a nice, soft double bed. Like a normal vacation."

Steve sighed. "It's okay," he said, the timbre of resignation heavy under his voice. "You wanna be on the top, or the bottom?"

"Hell no," Bucky shook his head. "I'm bunkin' with you."

"I really don't think this bed was designed to fit two fully grown superheroes," reasoned Steve, scrubbing his hand thoughtfully over his beard.

"What? Are you saying you don't want to get snuggly?" Bucky teased him, bumping their shoulders together. Steve leaned into him, his arms encircling Bucky's middle.

"I always want to get snuggly," he mumbled into Bucky's metal shoulder. "Jeezus, that arm gets cold."

Bucky shook him off. "Yeah, yeah," he said, puzzling at the problem before them. "But I think we can make this work."

The bunk was barely smaller than the well-worn old bed they had shared for so many years before the war; indeed, had they not been through something of an unexpected growth spurt in the intervening years, it may have been merely cozy. As it was, however, after they unpacked their few days' worth of groceries (eggs and instant coffee, milk and fresh fruit and smoked salmon and soft bread rolls and jam, a tube of chocolate-dipped oat biscuits, and what the locals charitably called pudding, but sure looked a lot like a sausage), and watched what would have been a beautiful sunset (at three in the goddamn afternoon) over the shore and the sea, if the clouds had lifted enough to let the sun make an appearance, it was time to go to bed.

It was a stupid time to go to bed, but even super-serum Steve was not immune to jet-lag, and with no ambient light-cues to tell them they had a solid seven hours before time to turn in, their bodies had long since abandoned any lingering knowledge of the time of day. Despite their shared exhaustion, Steve was radiant in the gentle glow of the candlelight, golden and strong as they shrugged off their damp travelling clothes, the scattering of freckles that dotted his bare arms and shoulders like waypoints on a map that only Bucky could read, marking all the places he had kissed and would kiss again. Steve rolled into the bottom bunk, and Bucky followed.

"Are you in?" asked Steve.

"Yep." Bucky could just feel the edge of the mattress against his side, but was reasonably confident that as long as they moved very carefully, he would not fall.

It was not as though they were not accustomed to snuggling down together; indeed, it seemed as though they both slept most soundly when they were touching. Sometimes it was a messy, limbs-tangled embrace, snoring into each other's hair; other times, it was just the back of a hand laid over an arm, or the sole of Steve's foot pressed comfortably against Bucky's leg. Even when they were practically just kids, sharing a bed because it was cheaper than sleeping alone (or so each of them asserted), long before they found the courage and the words to explore what they meant to each other and what they wanted to be, they always slept better together.

"Buck, do you think you could move your - ow - my arm's - "

Steve attempted to shift onto his other side, elbowing Bucky in the ribs. Bucky's left bum cheek was just about still on the mattress, albeit barely. He turned as gingerly as he could, one arm hanging uselessly above his head for lack of a better place to put it.

"I'm really glad we came here," he said. "Sorry about the bed."

Steve smiled. "I think we might fit better after all if you go on top," he said.

"Aww Stevie, I said I was bunkin' with you and - "

Before Bucky could finish his thought, Steve's hands had found their way to his waist, and they were shifting, shuffling together, carefully, carefully, until Steve lay beneath him. Oh, thought Bucky.

"Oh," he said. Yeah, this was better. "You sure you're not too jet-lagged to - "

Steve smiled, rolling his hips upward, and Bucky felt as though the heavy clouds had parted, the night sky luminous with glittering stars.

"I think I can stay awake," chuckled Steve, the soft scruff of his beard tickling Bucky's neck.

Bucky could not help but be reminded of the first time they had fumbled together, tangled in a tiny bed that might just have been a hair's breadth bigger than their little bunk, nervous but sure. Nerves were long forgotten now, but the effervescent joy he felt at the way Steve sighed with pleasure at that first feather-light brush of Bucky's fingertips along the length of him had only grown, and flourished.

It was difficult to say how late it was when they finally came down and drifted to sleep, in a dreamy haze of lazy lovemaking.

\---

It was nominally morning when they awoke, but hardly looked like it. Bucky was the first to wake, and in the near-dark, could just about see the shape of Steve's face blurrily close to his, pretty eyelashes soft and dark against his skin, still snoring. Bucky had just moved to brush a stray lock of hair from his face, when Steve jolted awake, the back of his head colliding violently with the wall.

"Ow, fuck," he exclaimed, rubbing his injury.

"Morning, punk," smiled Bucky.

"You know," replied Steve, wedged between Bucky and the wall, "I think this might actually be a converted shed."

"Told you so," said Bucky, retrieving his phone from the floor, thumbing through Google Maps in search of the nearest outpost likely to be open on Christmas eve.

It was nearing midday by the time they had dressed and made their way outside again. Bucky surveyed their surroundings, the sky and the grass and the rocks and the sea, squinting against the twinkling reflections on the water.

"How about that," he said. "Sun's out."

"Looks like your appeal to the weather gods was answered," said Steve.

Bucky shrugged, taking Steve's hand in his.

"Maybe it's a Christmas miracle."


End file.
